War Relics
by sunsolace
Summary: Sometimes, the past lies in wait where you least expect it. What's supposed to be a night walk across Boston becomes a little more complicated when she stumbles across an old friend of Nate's. Part 4 of A Lantern in the Dark.


**2075**

Smoothing her hands down the front of her dress, Kaelyn Prescott checks herself over one last time. Her favorite plum lipstick complements the warm copper of her skin, as does her eyeliner and a hint of eye shadow—just enough to bring out her hazel eyes. Her dark chestnut hair falls in elegant waves to curl about her collarbones. And, of course, the little black dress. Made of plush ink-black velvet, her cocktail dress scoops down along its boat neckline, dipping into a fitted waist that subtly flares at the skirt. Her matching black gloves complete the look.

She takes a moment to prink, twirling this way and that in front of the steamy mirror so her skirt swirls against her knees and jasmine perfume tickles her nose.

A car honks outside.

"Honey! That's your ride!"

"Coming!" Collecting her purse, Kaelyn clicks up the hallway in her matching black heels.

In the living room the Silver Shroud's latest adventure plays on the radio, but it's easily drowned out by raucous laughter. Arranged around the coffee table, Nate and his closest comrades from Fox Company sit with cards in one hand and drinks in the other. Nate and Irene Brenner share the couch like usual, while Gilbert Sculley abuses the armchair with a blithe disregard for propriety. Gina Miller is quieter than the others, her black eyes flicking between the doors and windows.

With his fair freckled skin, sandy blond hair and baby blue eyes, Sculley serves as the so-called 'ideal' American man until he opens his mouth. "Hey, Stewie, pass me another beer?"

Nate's tone is mild. "One day you're going to call me that while we're on duty, and we'll see where it gets you."

"With all due respect, _sir_ , we're off the clock."

Miller's the first to notice Kaelyn's entrance, and she gives her a rare smile. "Evening, Mrs Prescott."

Any comeback Nate might have thrown at Sculley is lost on his tongue when he sees Kaelyn and his breath catches. No matter how long the ring has been on her finger, her stomach still flutters when he gazes at her like that.

Brenner gives her two thumbs up over the back of the couch. "I don't know who you're trying to knock dead, other than this loser—" she gives Nate an affectionate shove "—but have fun."

"Lookin' good, Mrs P," Sculley calls.

Kaelyn bends down to kiss Nate, lightly, so as to not leave lipstick on his cheek. Nate turns his head just in time to plant a kiss of his own against her jaw. "Bye, honey. Have fun."

"I will." Kaelyn straightens. "Don't burn the house down, big guy."

"That's the only limit?" Sculley stretches his neck to elicit a series of painful-sounding crackles. "Well, damn, I've got a few ideas for tonight."

Pivoting on one precise little heel, Kaelyn laces her fingers over her stomach and fixes Sculley with her most innocuous smile. Nate is already busying himself with his drink to hide his amusement. "If you damage my property in any way, shape or form, I will sue you down to your underwear."

"Oh, so that's your, uh, _thing_ , is it?"

Ignoring Sculley, Kaelyn shoots Nate a bland look. "What do you think, hon? How does an extension on the house sound? Maybe a second floor?"

A quick flash of a smile as Nate leans back in his seat to rest his feet on the coffee table. "I could go for a hot tub, myself."

Another string of honks, this time more insistent. If Kaelyn doesn't move right now, Andrea will start honking to the tune of Atom Bomb Baby. Giving everyone bar Sculley a smile—he's only earned a stern look—Kaelyn trots to the door, calling, "Love you, honey!" over her shoulder.

* * *

 **2287**

Kaelyn lies on the car park rooftop, peering down at the dark street through the scope of her sniper rifle. Three days' worth of grit clings to her hide with no prospect of a bath in sight. While the evening chills the sweat on the back of her neck, it leaves the collar of her stained leather jacket cold and itchy in addition to damp. Veering around a super mutant nest led them here to the blocks southeast of Goodneighbor, in what was formerly known as Theater District.

With Deacon's lessons in the forefront of her mind, she seeks the tell-tale clues of nearby threats—with Valentine and Dogmeat waiting in an alley around the block, she doesn't want to take any chances. The rows of gaping windows are vacant and soulless. No pale shapes lurk underneath the scattered cars, but she isn't reassured. More worrying are the gang symbols painted on the bricks in red and white. They aren't the Gunners' insignia, that much she can tell, but beyond that she isn't well-versed in the intricacies of raider gangs.

The air shifts. Something cold and metallic brushes her collar.

A rasp: "Hold it, lovely. Put those hands up where I can see them."

The world halts, while her heart trips and gallops. If she turns, she'll be eyeballing the barrel of a gun. She forces cold fingers to uncurl from her rifle, to hover in the air on either side of her head. Hoarse voice suggests a ghoul. He's going to hold her instead of killing her when he had the best opportunity. A chance. She has a chance. With her steadiest lawyer voice, she says, "I'm sure we can work something out—"

A gnarled hand grabs a fistful of her jacket and yanks her around.

He's too close. His pistol is lowered, but she still can't breathe. Even in the dark it's obvious he is indeed a ghoul—bald, like many are, with radiation-withered skin pulled taut over his noseless face. His watery blue irises stand in sharp relief against blood-black scleras, like glittering ice bergs peeking out of black Arctic waters. And those unsettling eyes dart back and forth over her, incredulity scrawling itself over his crinkled-paper face with stark red inks.

"Mrs P?"

Kaelyn starts, but his gnarled grip only tightens on her shoulder. She blinks. Looks again. Whatever his facial features were as a human, she can't make sense of them under the ravages of time and radiation.

But there's only one person who ever called her that.

"Sculley?"

His lipless mouth twists upward, carried by ropey tendon straining across his bony cheek. "I don't believe it. Really _is_ you."

Kaelyn has to search him for a third time, seeking any trace of the man Nate had served with. His smirk is different, harder, and his build rangier—from radiation or poor nutrition, she doesn't know. But there's something about the set of his eyes, the cock of his head, that sends a twinge of recognition through her.

Sculley lets Kaelyn up. She smooths down the front of her jacket and prays he can't see the belated tremble in her he notices her eyes are stuck on his pistol—a standard-issue 10mm of far higher quality than any raider's pipe gun—he holsters it in one smooth motion. "You're lookin' a little too good for a ghoul, if you catch my drift. So why don't you tell your old pal Sculley what's going on?"

"Vault-Tec."

"Oh." As always, invoking the v-word conjures a dark look. But he still doesn't understand, asking, "So what was it this time? Time travel? Anti-aging serum?"

She presses her palms into her stomach, nails sinking into the worn leather. Her feet are cold in their boots. "They— froze us in cryogenic stasis. We had no idea what was going on."

Sculley whistles, then perks up. "Speaking of we, where's your better half? Amazed Stewie let little ol' you wander about on your own."

Kaelyn's heart clenches in her chest. "Nate, he— was murdered. Shaun was kidnapped."

Sculley closes his eyes. Tilts his face away with a grimace. "Damn. Figures." And then he swallows, snaps, "Who the _hell_ did that?"

"A mercenary named Kellogg, working for the Institute. They wanted Shaun, and Nate wouldn't let them take him…" She fumbles for the dog tags under her shirt. Relishes the feel of their edges biting into her palm, competing with the itch in her throat. Nate hadn't been wearing them, that day.

"Aw hell, Mrs P. Kellogg's one mean sonofabitch— er, pardoning my French. I don't know if you should try tangling with him."

Incomprehension grinds her thoughts to a halt. She says, "I killed him."

Sculley blinks once. Twice. "Ooh-kay. Righto."

Kaelyn watches the street below, more for an excuse to not look him in the eye. "We need to get moving. It's not safe here."

"Hold up a sec. If Kellogg's—you said the Institute's got your kid? Shit. _Crap_."

She could tell him that she's since become inured to swearing, but it's more entertaining to watch him belatedly trip over himself. "I'm getting Shaun back, however I have to."

"'Fraid to say it, but that boogeyman's got a near spotless track record when it comes to kidnapping people outta their beds." Nevertheless, his skepticism is watered down by fresh wariness. "You're, ah, certain Kellogg's pushin' up daisies?"

"Yes." It's only after she's retracted the stand and slung her sniper rifle over her shoulder that she notices Sculley is still staring at her. "What is it?"

His gaze flickers between her and the rifle. "And you can use that, can you?"

"Yes." Deacon had made sure of that.

Kaelyn pushes past him to get down from the roof. The only sounds at her back are the rusted creaks of the exterior stairs, warning her feet to stay light or discover the health effects of falling three stories onto concrete. Sculley follows her down to the narrow side alley, and the back of her neck prickles under the weight of his blood-black gaze. She checks each end of the alley the way Valentine taught her, in case something has wandered by while they were talking, but there's only a gaping dumpster exuding its putrid fragrance. Her fingers twitch on Deliverer's grip all the same.

Then Sculley asks, "That big boy isn't too big for you to handle?"

"No."

Sculley chuckles. "Never been intimidated by size, have you?"

Kaelyn turns to stone. "The innuendo is rather inappropriate," she says, clipped, "given my husband is dead."

That pulls him up short. "Aw, hell, Mrs P, I didn't mean it like that."

She keeps her eyes trained on the end of the alley. "You absolutely did."

Quiet, but for the sound of boots scuffed against the ground and an inappropriate mutter.

She doesn't check to see if he follows her—but the soft footfalls behind her scrape against her ears. Sculley slips past her to peer into the junction, bringing her to a halt with a hand catching her arm.

He blithely ignores the sharp look she tries to cut him with. "So where are you headed, Mrs P? This ain't the place for a little lawyer like yourself to be roaming on her lonesome."

 _That_ prickles her pride—she's still alive, isn't she? Isn't that the measure of competency in the Commonwealth? "A friend and I are heading east; I was scouting ahead for nearby trouble.

Do you know anything about the raiders that control this area?"

Sculley cracks a grin. "Today's your lucky day, Mrs P. The Red Swatters claimed one too many caravans. The boys and I just cleaned house. We're sweeping the area to make sure we squashed 'em all."

Kaelyn sweeps her gaze over him, searching for any indication of his current allegiances. In this day and age, his worn fatigues signal 'Gunner' rather than 'US Army personnel'. But she doubts they enlist ghouls, even one with Sculley's kind of experience.

"We can take a walk, Mrs P—I'll get you and your friend outta here safe."

His generosity punctures her resentment, but it isn't quite enough to drain the wound. "Thank you, Sculley."

Kaelyn takes the lead to find the little alley around the block where Valentine leans against the wall, Dogmeat by his feet, with his fedora tilted low to mask the glow of his cigarette and his eyes. Dogmeat bounds over to Kaelyn to nose her hand and sniff Sculley's boots, earning himself several pats. Valentine crushes his cigarette under his heel and pushes off from the wall.

"Wait, so we've got a lawyer running with the Commonwealth's lone cop?" Sculley snorts. "Never saw that one coming."

Valentine looks Sculley over with a flick of his golden eyes. "You know this gent?"

"Unfortunately."

"Aw, you're a cruel woman, Mrs P."

"Only to you, Sculley."

After making the necessary introductions, Sculley takes point. Lengthening his stride, he assumes a patrol stance and prowls the streets with an ease that could almost rival Deacon, leading them along a quiet if circuitous route through the district to avoid super mutant nests. Once, a couple of silhouettes peer down from a barricade that blocks the intersection, but before Kaelyn can cry an alarm Sculley waves an arm above his head. The two figures wave back and, with some traded insults shouted into the night, Sculley keeps moving.

Valentine pulls Kaelyn to a halt, and she only belatedly sees Sculley's raised fist. The ghoul scales a pile of refuse that traps an overturned bus in a stony gray fist, and only after a thorough sweep does he call the area clear for Kaelyn, Valentine and Dogmeat to follow. As they move on, the edges of a mist rolls south from the river, slicking the bricks and cracked asphalt with moisture that gleams like silver beads under the moonlight.

She'll never get used to how dark Boston is at night.

It's only after the city's tallest skyscrapers loom to the north like poised incisors that Kaelyn works up the nerve to ask: "What have you been doing all this time, Sculley?"

"Well, let's see, for the first hundred years or so I petted radbunnies and handed out presents to orphans. Then the ghoulism really kicked in and I got booted out of Diamond City with everyone else."

Kaelyn winces.

"What, you were expecting a happy story? Damn commies blew my home to shit, and I became _this_." Sculley holds up the back of his hand, the tendons of his closed fist stark like piano wires under what remains of his skin.

"That wasn't necessary," Valentine rumbles. "We've all been there, pal. Trust me."

It hits her then, so fast she has to choke back a hysterical laugh. A ghoul two hundred years old, a synth with human memories, and an escaped test subject for cryogenic stasis—decrepit remnants of pre-war life, all of them.

Sculley swears under his breath, then fixes his gaze on the horizon. "Been scraping by with merc work. Pay's shi—crap, but that's nothing new."

Kaelyn doesn't dare ask what happened to Brenner. Miller. Fox Company. Or those first weeks—first _years_ —after the bombs fell.

"What about you? You've clearly been busy since escaping the vault." Another wayward look to her sniper rifle, then to Valentine. "'Fraid there ain't much use for a lawyer out here, Mrs P."

She'd been so _proud_ when she'd passed the bar exam. It had been the final stepping stone after her law degree. That piece of paper in its gilt frame on the bookshelf had represented years of late nights, caffeine addiction, and memorization of the library's layout. Nate—

He'd been proud, too.

 _He'd_ be far more suited to this future than a lawyer whose only battles were ever fought in a courtroom.

"Maybe there aren't any judges to make your case to, but there's a sore need for justice in the Commonwealth," Valentine says, and something in Kaelyn's chest loosens an inch, softened by gratitude.

The neighborhood changes as apartments recede into smaller, squatter brick flats while gang signs are fewer and farther between. Sculley draws to a halt at a broken section of chain-link fence. "Here's your stop."

Valentine at least recognizes the area, as he nods. "Appreciate it."

"I need to get back to the boys. Mandy's probably drunk all the moonshine without me. These are the sacrifices I make for you, Mrs P." But then he pauses and, half-turning, bows his head. Wets his lips. "You know, he'd punch me out for saying this, but I'm glad you offed the sonofabitch that got him."

"Me too."

They share a look.

Sculley shifts his weight and broken glass grinds under his boots. "Look, if you ever need anything, ask for directions from Whitechapel Charlie at the Third Rail—you've been to Goodneighbor, yeah?"

 _Oh._ Kaelyn schools her expression to something dignified—maybe law school wasn't a complete waste after all. "Thank you, Sculley." And then, stupidly, she feels compelled to say, "Be safe out there."

He waves her off. "Just— _shit_ , Mrs P, going toe to toe with the Institute? Be careful. And make 'em pay. For Prescott. For your kid. For everyone."

"I plan to."

Sculley looks her over one last time. "Who knew, huh?"


End file.
